


No Candy Hearts Would Taste as Sweet

by SD_Ryan



Series: Stucky Hallmark Holiday [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Porn, Asexual Character, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Explicit Consent, Gay Bucky Barnes, Happy Ending, Kid Natasha Romanov, M/M, Matchmaker Natasha Romanov, Not Beta Read, Scarring, Sexy Times, Stucky - Freeform, Valentine's Day, can somebody please just hug bucky?, reference to past trauma, widower dad Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3745438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Steve stares, no words coming. To say they’ve been playing it safe would be a monumental understatement. They kiss. They touch—above the waist. They cuddle and caress. But they haven’t had sex. Haven’t even seen each other naked. And Bucky’s saying … Bucky’s telling him he’s ready. For more. For anything. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Steve tests the idea, letting his imagination roam, listening for the voices that have shut down these impulses in the past. He waits for the rush of terror or shortness of breath. But there’s nothing: no self-recrimination, no judgement. He feels hopeful, he realizes, and really really excited. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> In which revelations are made and Steve and Bucky have a Valentine's Day date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the most part, I'm keeping a loose grasp on "reality" in these stories, in keeping with the Hallmark cheese-tastic theme. But for the sake of my readers who might identify with characters or events depicted here, a certain level of accuracy is demanded. This story features a character coming out, which is just as messy and full of misunderstanding as it can be in real life. I've attempted to be respectful and honest in my interpretation and definitely want to know if I've failed in that endeavor.
> 
> As for the sexy times, this first chapter is pretty tame, but we'll earn our rating in chapter 2.

 

There’s a single light shining in the room, everything quiet except for the huffed sounds of exertion. Steve’s sweaty. Exhausted. They’ve been working so long every muscle aches, but he can’t give up now. Bucky needs him.

“A little to the left,” Bucky grunts. “Wait! Yes—right there. Okay.”

Steve’s trying, but he’s afraid of forcing it. “It doesn’t want to go.”

“Just _push_ , Steve. Come on. We’re so close.”

Jesus, Bucky can be bossy. There have been hints over the past couple months, of course, sparks of dominance in between all the gentle patience he usually shows. Bucky’s a tyrant in the kitchen, taking control of elaborate, homemade meals and scoffing at the suggestion of an easy night getting fast food. He’s known to sermonize anytime the subject of history or politics comes up, slipping into what Nat likes to call full-on-teacher-mode. And if Steve didn’t know before, he definitely knows now: there is one correct way to organize Bucky’s beloved vinyl collection and any variation from such will not be well-received. Steve figures these occasional demonstrations of authority are just part of the whole awesome Bucky package. And, anyway, competence is sexy.

He takes a deep breath, arms shaking, and tries to do as instructed, heaving with all his weight. He groans, feeling Bucky straining too. 

 _Almost … almost …_ Then something slots into place and Steve just knows. 

“Yes! It’s in!” Bucky shouts in confirmation, and relief pools along Steve’s spine. 

_Oh, thank god._

His hands fall away from the machine, and he collapses onto linoleum, panting. “Christ, Bucky.”

“We did it. I can’t believe we did it.” He turns with a glazed expression. “Oh, man. Thank you so much.” Bucky moves out of sight as he checks the water and electrical connections. Satisfied, he plops down next to Steve, still breathing heavy, eyes alight with success. 

“What are friends for?” Steve’s smile is wide and easy.

Bucky smirks. Bits of fringe have escaped the knot at the top of his head, falling in sweaty strands around his face. “Think we’re a little more than friends now, aren’t we?” He leans over and steals a kiss. 

Steve feels gross, absolutely in need of a shower, but he’s never one to turn away Bucky’s affection. “Definitely more than friends. I’d say hauling that thing down here brings this relationship to a whole new level.” He brushes his nose over Bucky’s, teasing and silly, just because he can. “You know, I thought it was a euphemism when you asked me to help install your new washing machine.”

“What the hell, Steve?” Bucky cackles, head thrown back and eyes squeezed tight. “I thought you were such a Boy Scout. Does anyone else know what a dirty mind you have?” He pats Steve’s thigh—friendly, without heat. “Hot cocoa. Washing machines. What’s next?”

“Well, I was gonna ask you to help weed my garden this spring, but now I don’t think I will.”

Steve loves the way Bucky laughs with his whole body, eyes bright, hands latching onto him for support. It’s one of his favorite things these days, making Bucky laugh.

“Come on, Captain Innuendo, lemme make you some lunch.”

He follows Bucky up and out of the damp basement, glancing back at the newly installed machine with pride. “Hell of a lot a work, Buck, but it sure does look nice.”

“Yeah it does.” 

When he looks back, Bucky’s eyes are on him, warm and affectionate. Bucky turns and finishes climbing the stairs before Steve can parse exactly what that expression meant.

…

Bucky’s kitchen is like everything else in his single-story bungalow: cozy and welcoming … and nearly too small for Steve. At first he tip-toed around the place, arms tucked, trying to keep from knocking into lamps and picture frames. He’s more comfortable now, though he still feels a bit like an ogre in teeny fairytale cottage. The previous owner lived in the house for fifty years before passing away in her sleep, leaving behind a few close friends but no family to speak of. Just returned from Afghanistan (and the months of rehab that followed), Bucky bought the house fully furnished and left most of the decor as he found it. There’s something incongruous about former-soldier-Bucky padding around a place swathed in lavender floral wallpaper and lace window treatments, but he seems to feel so safe and happy here that Steve has never given a thought to teasing him about it.

While Bucky starts on lunch, Steve makes himself at home, pouring two glasses of water and passing one over. He knows better than to offer anything more than the most basic assistance in the kitchen, sometimes chopping onions or grating cheese under Bucky’s direction. Mostly, he tries to stay out of the way. He quenches his thirst with a huge gulp and peeks through the curtains on the back door in search of his daughter. She’s sitting in a folding chair on the patio, reading a book and suffering the slobbery attentions of Bucky’s Lab-Retriever mix, Roscoe. Absently, she picks up a ragged tennis ball and tosses it across the sprawling, snow-dotted yard. The dog scrambles after it and returns a minute later with a wide, yellow orb of a grin.

“I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was April rather than February. The girl’s out there with sunglasses and no coat.” Steve drops the curtain and shakes his head. Nat runs warm on a regular day, but this is a bit much. “You can’t fool nature just by wishing it so.”

Hidden behind the open fridge door, Bucky chuckles. He pops up, arms stuffed full. “And when you say stuff like that, is it your dad you’re channeling or your mom?” 

Steve flushes, acutely aware of how much he did sound like his mom just then. He laughs along with Bucky, always willing to turn a little mockery on himself. “Watch it, Barnes. You’re not so big, I couldn’t take you over my knee.”

Bucky chokes on his surprise. “Oh, really?” He turns away, setting the food down on the counter with deliberate care, and murmurs, “So that’s how I get you to do it.” 

Steve’s breath catches on a sharp inhale, eyes wide with understanding. He almost blurts out: _I didn’t mean it that way_ , but it doesn’t really matter what he meant, does it? Now that Bucky’s taken the opening and run. There’s a sudden charge to the space between them, neither moving. Steve’s mind is full of a lurid stream of images: things he’d never imagined Bucky liking; things he’d never imagined doing. Until now. Before he knows what he’s going to do, his feet carry him the short distance to where Bucky stands, nudging into his space, hands on hips. Bucky releases the tight set of his shoulders with a heavy exhale, relaxing into the hold. Steve brushes his lips across the nape of his neck, the flavor of salt and grit on his tongue. He tastes dirty. Real.

“Is that … something you want?” 

Bucky trembles, leaning back into him, and nods. “I want anything you’d like to do, Steve.”

Steve feels stupid and shy, out of his depth. He knows people do these kinds of things, and it’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with it. He just isn’t sure he can be one of them. “I’m not,” he mutters. “I don’t know—”

“Steve.” Bucky turns and puts his hands on Steve’s waist, no question of possible retreat. “I’m just saying I’m ready. Whatever you want. I don’t need bells and whistles,” his eyes glint in mischief, “or whips and chains. We’ve been taking things slow, and I appreciate that. But I’m ready, as long as you are, too.”

Steve stares, no words coming. To say they’ve been playing it safe would be a monumental understatement. They kiss. They touch—above the waist. They cuddle and caress. But they haven’t had sex. Haven’t even seen each other naked. And Bucky’s saying … Bucky’s telling him he’s ready. For more. For anything. Steve tests the idea, letting his imagination roam, listening for the voices that have shut down these impulses in the past. He waits for the rush of terror or shortness of breath. But there’s nothing: no self-recrimination, no judgement. He feels hopeful, he realizes, and really _really_ excited.

“Okay.”

Bucky blinks, mouth pursing. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I think I’m ready, too. I mean, I _am_. I’m ready.”

A grin breaks across Bucky’s face, so open and bright, Steve feels like he’s looking into the sun. The way his hands flex on Steve’s waist, eyes growing heavy-lidded and suggestive, it seems he might try to make good on the offer right here and now.

“A-hem.”

Steve jumps back as far as the tiny kitchen allows and turns toward Nat, face aflame. She closes the door behind her as Roscoe bounds to Bucky’s side, begging for treats.

“I swear, every time I walk into the damn room,” she grumbles. “Think you can stop making google-eyes at each other for five minutes?”

Steve’s so flustered can’t even bring himself to correct her language. 

“Sorry, kiddo, part of the deal,” Bucky laughs. “Subjects are allowed to engage in a dozen affectionate gazes per day, provided they are out of the adolescent’s line of sight,” he goes on, as though reading from a manual. “Episodes of hand-holding may accompany said gazes, but should number no more than three over any eight-hour period.”

“Well the adolescent is here now, so knock it off,” she says, unable to keep the smile out of her voice. She drops her book and sunglasses on the little cafe table in the corner and flops into a chair. “What was I thinking, getting you two together?”

“No take-backs, now. The damage is done.”

That’s for sure, Steve muses. He’s in deep. And thankfully, he knows Nat is only joking about all this. Well, no, she’s not joking about the PDA—she could live without that. But there’s nothing she’s said or done since Steve and Bucky got together to indicate she regrets it at all. He’s better, and so is she. This is good for both of them. He watches Bucky chop and slice, a smile playing across his lips like this little domestic scene—with the panting dog and smart-assed kid and Steve lumbering around this tiny, 1950s kitchen—is everything he’s ever wanted. 

Yeah, this is good for all of them.

Steve turns away from them, fidgeting absently at the counter, desperate for the chance to compose himself. He’s so ridiculously happy. Unbelievably, blissfully happy. He never imagined he’d be here, after losing so much, and he has no idea how he got so lucky. He feels suddenly overwhelmed, breath hitching, eyes watering. Startling to the hand on his shoulder, he turns to see Bucky watching him, gaze full of concern. _Everything okay?_ he seems to ask, and Steve nods, pulling himself together. He smiles and asks for something to do. Anything to help him focus. After stroking a reassuring hand down Steve’s arm, Bucky sends him in search of plates and napkins.

“And wash up. It’ll be ready soon.”

Nat is quiet, having missed the exchange or simply choosing not to comment. Roscoe pads to her side, tongue lolling as she scratches behind his ears. “So is it done? Did you get the washing machine hooked up?” 

“No thanks to you,” Steve says, ignoring the lingering wobble in his voice. He pretends he isn’t a giant marshmallow and starts setting the table.

“You looked like you were doing just fine without me. Anyway, I’m only here for the doggie cuddles and free food.”

Bucky’s knife scrapes across the cutting board as he slices into a loaf of ciabatta. “No free meals around here, lazybones. I need the platter above the fridge and the honey in the cabinet next to it. Bring those over here, then you can get whatever you want to drink.”

“Grumble, grumble,” she says, though she does as asked. “Get the platter, Cinderella. Get the drinks, Cinderella. No ball for you, Cinderella.”

“If that makes me the wicked step-mother, we might have words.” 

Steve barks out a laugh, and even Nat can’t hide her grin. Bucky finishes what he’s doing, and they all take their usual seats. “Picnic lunch, Cinderella,” he says, smirking. “Dig in.” 

The platter Bucky sets down is a feast for the eyes. Lunch meats and cheeses are fanned across half of the plate, with thinly-sliced fruit and accompaniments on the other. Steve dives in with enthusiasm, assembling an open-faced sandwich of goat cheese, pear, and prosciutto. Decadently, he drizzles honey over the whole thing and moans at his first taste. Nat opts for smoked turkey, aged cheddar, and apple, while Bucky takes a little bit of everything to munch as he pleases.

“God, Bucky, I take it all back,” she says through a huge bite. “This makes my mouth so happy—keep making stuff like this and I’ll be your permanent kitchen slave. So much better than the PB&J Dad usually cranks out on the weekend.”

“Hey!” 

Bucky smiles, tapping Steve’s shoe with his boot. “He’s not all that bad, Nat. He can do pasta pretty well.”

“Anyone can do pasta well. Even Clint can do pasta.”

“I’m sitting right here, you know,” Steve says, but it lacks conviction. He’d be the first to confess he’s a pretty lousy cook. Bucky strokes his thigh, and Steve’s happy to let him believe the comfort is warranted. “I hate to admit it, but she’s right, Buck. This is incredible. You just pulled a bunch of stuff out of your fridge, and it’s still better than anything I could come up with.”

“Cut it out, you two, or you’ll have my head swellin’ too big to fit through the doors.”

Steve laughs, refraining from commenting on the typical state of Bucky’s ego, which he knows can be mighty inflated. Rightfully so. The man is wonderful.

They chat while they eat, easy rolling conversation. Nat tells them about the big drama at school last Friday (Clint’s older brother, Tony, asked out class president, Pepper Potts, in a spectacularly public display); the pyrotechnics were impressive, Nat says, and Tony only suffered minor burns. They make plans for hauling away the old broken washing machine still sitting in the basement, and Steve tells them about a new account he landed illustrating a book cover for a local writer. Before long, the plates are empty but for crumbs and everyone’s rocking a full belly. Nat clears the table without being asked, rinsing the dishes before loading them into the dishwasher. 

“I’m gonna go home and grab some stuff, and then I’ll be out of your hair for the night,” she says, and Steve frowns, at a loss.

“Out of our hair? Where you going?”

“Sleepover at Clint’s,” she says like it’s obvious, like it’s not the least bit problematic his daughter is talking about staying the night at a boy’s house. “You have plans, right?”

Steve gapes his confusion.

“ _Valentine’s_ _Day_ ,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “God, do I have to do everything around here? You should go out. Be romantic.” She turns back to the sink. “We’re gonna marathon _The Hunger Games_ and eat our weight in pizza, so I won’t be in the way if you want to make …” She smothers a shudder. “You know. Plans.”

And there is so much going on in those few words, Steve has the urge to stab out his eardrums and scrub his brain clean. He has no idea where to even begin addressing it all. He looks desperately to Bucky for assistance, but the man is absolutely useless, holding his hands up with a shrug that says, _Not touching this one, pal._

“You can’t—I mean, we haven’t talked about you sleeping over, Nat. It’s fine if you want to hang out a bit, but I’m not comfortable with you going over there for the whole night.”

Nat turns, hands dripping water, eyes wide and disbelieving. “This is Clint, Dad. _Clint_. I’ve been having sleepovers at Clint’s house since I was in footie pajamas. What the hell?”

“Watch it.” Steve runs his hands through his hair, fighting the urge to storm across the room and tie Nat up until she agrees to be his baby girl for always and never put him through this kind of stress again. “I thought that was all over. You haven’t slept at Clint’s since last summer, and things are …” He’s floundering, he knows, but he can’t seem to stop talking. “It’s _different_ now. You and Clint … boys and girls …” 

“Dad! Oh my god, are you seriously—” Nat studies him, seeing something that makes her violently unhappy. “You are. You’re serious. I can’t even.” She clamps her mouth shut, nostrils flared. “ _What the hell_?”

“Nat, I’m not being unreasonable here. You’re my daughter; it’s my job to set safe limits—”

“So if I decide to go to Darcy’s house, instead, that’ll be fine?”

Steve can feel the trap she’s setting and watches himself waltz right in, anyway. “I guess.”

Arms crossed over her chest, voice firm and sure, she reminds him so much of Peggy it aches. “Why?” she demands.

“What?”

“Is it because you think there are things I might want to do with Clint that make you uncomfortable, and you assume there’s no chance I’d want to do them with Darcy?”

Steve’s reply sticks in his throat.

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite.”

“ _Language!”_

“Nat, come on,” Bucky says softly behind Steve’s shout. Roscoe whines, slinking under Bucky’s legs. Steve can’t feel properly remorseful for scaring him, focused as he is on the dark glare Nat is directing his way. This whole thing is spinning away from him so fast. Nat sweeps her eyes pointedly over Bucky before turning the full heat of her wrath on Steve. 

“It doesn’t matter what words I use to say it. You are making disgusting assumptions about me, and you of all people should know better.”

“Natasha,” he says slowly, trying to regain control. He can’t stop trembling. He knows she’s right—about the assumptions, anyway—and he feels bad for that. But she thinks she knows everything, and she still so young. She can’t possibly understand all the trouble this world is just waiting to heap on her. “We can have that conversation. If there are things you want to talk about, we can absolutely have that conversation. But you have to stop attacking me. I’m not the enemy here.”

Nat’s expression is cold and firm, but tears spill down her cheeks, betraying her hurt. Steve’s heart cracks. He has never needed Peggy more. She would know what to do. She would handle this so much better than him.

“Oh baby,” he says crossing the kitchen in a few short strides. “Come here.” He gathers her up into his arms, but she’s resolute in her anger. Unyielding to his touch. “I’m sorry. Don’t cry, please.” He can’t bear it. After everything they’ve been through, he can’t stand to be the cause of her tears.

“I’m just gonna …” Bucky says, sliding his chair back.

Steve nods as Bucky slips out of the room with Roscoe on his heels. 

“Is there something you want to talk about?” he asks when they’re alone. Nat tenses at the question, and Steve releases her from the hug. “Is there? You can tell me anything.”

“I was just making a point, Dad. It’s not like I want to kiss Darcy,” she says, wiping at her face. “Or Clint.”

“Do you understand why it makes me nervous? The idea of you staying the night there?”

“I understand you’re worried about things you don’t have to worry about.”

He huffs in exasperation. How can he make her listen? “Maybe not now, but soon, Natasha. Soon, these are going to be real issues. You’re going to want—”

“Dad, you’re not hearing me.” She’s so earnest, her frustration a mirror to his own. “I don’t want to kiss Clint. I don’t want to kiss _anyone_. I’m not … I don’t feel that way about people.” She crosses her arms, drawing in on herself. 

Steve wants to laugh. Wants to hug her again. Contents himself with setting his hands on her shoulders. She’s just a little girl—of course she doesn’t feel that way. He opens his mouth to say as much, but she cuts him off.

“ _No, Dad_. I like people. And maybe Clint kind of is my boyfriend, but I don’t _feel_ that way. I don’t want those things. Physical things. I don’t think I’m ever going to want those things.”

“What are you saying?” He thought he had a handle on this, but now he’s utterly lost.

“Sex,” she huffs. “Everyone around me is so aware of it. Even if they’re not doing it, they’re still talking about it. Obsessed with it, like it’s everything. But it's not appealing to me. Not even a little bit.”

“Nat, you’re twelve years old, how can you—?” He huffs, drawn up short by memories of LGBT rallies and late-night talks with art school friends. “Are you saying you think you’re asexual?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she says with a biting dose of sarcasm. “Do you ‘think’ you’re bi? When did you figure that one out? And what would be an acceptable age to get your seal of approval?”

Steve winces. What he said was extraordinarily patronizing, he knows that. How could he be so stupid about something so important? And how much maturity must it have taken Nat to figure all this out before she was even old enough for high school? God, she’s amazing; Steve’s never been more proud.

“I’m sorry, you’re right. You feel what you feel.” His hands look like paws, too big for Nat’s petite shoulders. He squeezes her once, then lets them fall to his sides. “Have you talked to anyone about this? Anyone else?”

“Clint knows.” She smirks at some private thought, then seems to remember herself. “He definitely knows.”

“And he’s respectful? He doesn’t try—”

“Yeah, he gets it. He’s good.”

Steve chews on his lips, clasps a hand to the back of his neck, and considers his next words. He could keep prying, ask for more details, but she’s already given so much, and he has no desire to push her away. It’s simple once he figures that out.

“So you want to stay the night at your kind-of boyfriend’s house.”

She huffs a hollow laugh. “I wanted to do it for you. So you and Bucky could have some time without me in the way.”

“You’re never in the way.”

She gives him a withering look, one that cuts right to the secret heart of him, the part of Steve that knows he’d _really_ like some alone time with Bucky.

“Okay, so yes, that was very thoughtful of you.” He tips his head, eyes on his sneakers. He’s suddenly realizing Nat has given a lot more thought to the potential importance of this day than he has. “Do you think I’m a bad boyfriend? Because Valentine’s Day wasn’t on my radar. Like, at all.”

“You’re great, Steve.” She laughs, real this time. He likes the sound of it so much he even lets her get away with calling him ‘Steve’. “Sometimes, you guys just need a little push.” 

“Well thank goodness we have you,” he says with a snort. Steve feels lighter than he has since this whole conversation started. Maybe next time an adolescent grenade falls in his lap he won’t panic so much. “All right, kiddo. You can do your sleep-over. I’ll call Clint’s folks to make sure it’s okay on their end, but otherwise it’s fine with me.”

Her eyes go wide with surprise. “Really?”

“Sure.” 

He turns to check the clock on the wall—it’s just after two. He’ll have enough time to clean up and pull something together for tonight, hopefully. When he turns back, Nat’s expression is carefully neutral, mask back in place. The call with Mrs. Barton is quick and reassuring. In short order, he sends Nat on her way with a hug. He waits until she’s just out of view, then collapses onto the nearest chair, scrubbing his hands over his face. This is so much to take in. So much to process. And he’s going to have to be careful, do some research, make sure he helps pave an easier path for her. But if there’s one thing he knows, it’s how strong Nat is, and he has no doubt she’s going to be just fine.

Bucky peeks his head in, and Steve greets him with a broad smile. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, we’re good.” Steve stands up and pulls Bucky into his arms, drawing strength. He grins, realizing what the night might hold. “And it looks like you and I have a date.”

Bucky laughs, eyebrows raised. “She got her way, huh?”

They should really know by now. “Always does.”

 

 

 

...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating on this puppy has been changed from Mature to Explicit. Guess I got a little more graphic than intended, and not just with the food porn. ;)
> 
>  **Trigger Warning** for mentions of trauma and intense scarring. There's no violence in this fic, but Bucky is dealing with ongoing body issues after his time in the war.

 

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to call Steve Rogers a damn-near perfect human being. All that integrity dripping out of him through earnest, honest eyes. The waves of pink-tinged shyness that have him flushing like a schoolboy whenever Bucky lays a hand on him. His dopey-puppy clumsiness, knocking into tables and chairs like he’s not used to walking around in that massive frame, though surely he’s been doing it most of his adult life. There’s the way he takes you at face value and always, always assumes the best of everyone. How good he is with his kid even though being a single dad is the kind of high stakes minute-by-minute challenge Bucky can’t even imagine having to take on. And how he’s doing all of this—being this shining example to mankind—while working through inconceivable, bone deep, red-stained grief. Bucky half believes he’s some kind of superhuman specimen they must have cooked up in a lab, the golden skinned pinnacle of creation. Whatever else he might be, Steve-freaking-Rogers is the most adorable, naive, kindhearted, stupid-faced punk Bucky has ever met, and he likes him so much it hurts.

Liking him is the easy part. Everything else … well, he’s working on it.

 

…

 

Bucky thought Steve might be too shaken from the afternoon’s revelations to want to do much of anything afterward. Nat had given them an evening alone, sure, but after hearing all that had transpired between the two of them, he figured a night on the couch with popcorn and a movie was as much as he could expect from Steve.

Bucky always did like surprises.

Steve wants to go out. Gets so excited about the idea, he’s practically vibrating by the time Bucky shoos him out the door to get cleaned up and meet back in a few hours. He probably should have done something to commemorate Valentine’s Day, he knows that. Feels bad about having taken the cowardly road, now, freshly showered and getting dressed. He’d considered it in the days before—making some sort of grand romantic display—but it was one of those things that could backfire so easily. What if this had been a special day for Steve and Peggy? What if he was encroaching on memories that were precious and fragile? The way Steve reacted to the promise of a date, all bouncing enthusiasm, Bucky figures those fears were pretty stupid.

It’s getting easier to feel like he isn’t in competition with a ghost, but ugly little worries still crop up, and Bucky isn’t certain he can ever be whole enough to fill the space she left behind. He’s trying. Steve’s too kind to ever let on he compares the love of his life to his new flame, and Bucky wants this bad enough he’ll allow himself to believe. He may not have any Valentines to offer, but maybe he can give Steve something just as good.

With that in mind, he squeezes into the tightest pair of jeans he owns and pulls on a soft black tee. There are more than a few things about his post-war body that make Bucky cringe, but he’s comfortable showing off as long as he’s pretty well covered. He’s thinking about skin-to-skin contact right now, rehashing that revelatory kitchen conversation, but it’s not his own skin he’s focused on. No, the words _I’m ready_ repeat through his mind, leave him lurching into daydreams about all the ways he might be allowed to touch Steve. And suddenly his pants feel that much tighter. He finds the simple act of lacing up his boots unbelievably complicated, and his hands tremble as he ties his damp hair up in a knot.

“Fuckin’ amateur hour,” he grumbles and slaps his cheeks hard to shock himself out of floating fantasy.

It’s damn foolish, getting so worked up now, when there’s nothing he can do about it. He takes a deep, calming breath. Gives himself a once-over in the mirror. Not bad, he thinks, even if his eyes dart away from the flash of silver on his left. Steve likes the way he looks—he’s got that going for him, at least—and if nothing else, tonight he’s going to give the man an eyeful.

At the last minute, Bucky realizes his bed could probably use a change of sheets (best to be prepared and all), so he strips it and puts on a clean set. He’d kept the old iron frame from the previous owner but drew the line at sleeping in the lady’s bed, so the mattress and box spring are new. He nods at it now, looking fresh and clean, topped with soft blue sheets and a simple gray duvet he found online. It’s probably the most masculine element of the whole house (if you can call a bedspread any kind of masculine), but Bucky doesn’t really care about that. This place is his sanctuary and he loves it, even if he sometimes feels like a pair of discount gym shorts living on a shelf of fancy ladies underwear.

Steve rings the bell at six on the dot, and Bucky makes a smart-ass quip about his gentlemanly punctuality. Steve’s cheeks pink up real nice, and he drops his eyes, embarrassed as all hell. Bucky marks each rosy patch with a kiss, but leaves off on the teasing. They walk, bundled up to keep the chill at bay, hands twined together. Steve knows where they’re going, so he leads the way, strolling along residential streets until they’re met by the glow of storefronts in the little town center.

“I called around, and everything was booked up,” he says, full of regret. “But I know a place that won’t require a reservation, and the food’s amazing.”

“Great.” Bucky smiles, easy and content.  

“It’s not gonna be anything fancy, okay? Like, the opposite of upscale, so don’t get your hopes up—”

“Steve,” he says, cutting off what sounds like the beginning of a rambling apology. “I don’t need fancy.” He squeezes Steve’s hand and turns to meet his eyes. “Just you and me is great; everything else is bonus.” He’s a fucking sap, but it’s true; just being here with Steve is more than enough.

Steve clamps his mouth shut and nods, keeping any further caveats to himself. When they hit the main square, he says, “You like Korean?”

He motions towards a large silver food truck parked on the southern edge of the open space. It’s a few feet from where the two of them had their first “date” at Christmas, cocoa and carols and tree-lighting. That night ended in disaster, and though they made it through to the other side, the moment is still a sharp gash in Bucky’s memory. He says nothing—nothing to say—just reads the blocky red letters spelling out “Seoul Food” on the sign topping the truck and smiles.

“I heard about this! Haven’t had a chance to check them out yet.”

He’s not blowing smoke here; he loves the idea of the little mobile restaurant serving modern Korean with a twist. Bucky knows he can come off like a food snob, but his high standards have nothing to do with elitism. He’s struggled through enough meals consisting of MRE’s and reconstituted mess hall slop, he’s vowed to never sacrifice ease for flavor again. Now that he’s in charge of his diet, and there’s no call to eat for sustenance alone, he can afford to be picky about what he puts in his mouth.

He looks over the menu, rich with options, and smells the chili and spice in the air. “This looks great.”

“Yeah?” Steve sounds relieved. “I had lunch here a few days ago, and I kept thinking it’d be something you’d like. My treat, okay?”

They order a couple things to share—bibimbap with spicy pork sausage and a kimchi tofu bowl—and settle on one of the park benches nearby. The sun has set, horizon glowing rose and weaving into deep purples and blues overhead. Fairy lights twinkle atop the budding trees lining the square and couples wander through, beaming like proper Valentine’s dates. They’re one of those couples, Bucky realizes, a warm contentment settling in his chest. He’s a part of a “we” now, and isn’t that just the best thing ever?

The food fulfills its promise, and soon they’re scraping their chopsticks along the bottom of empty containers.

“Oh my god,” Bucky says, licking bulgogi sauce from the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t need those last few bites, but I just couldn’t stop.”

Steve groans in agreement, leaning back. “Well, I guess that’s it for our evening. You’re gonna have to roll me home now.”

Bucky laughs and chucks his shoulder. His gaze lands on Steve’s lips, wet from where he’s licked them clean. He sparks to the idea that he’d like to taste that mouth, so he does. Easy as that, he leans over and steals a kiss. Steve pulls away—“No, Buck! I taste like kimchi!”—but Bucky slides his hand under Steve’s coat and lowers a glance that says he couldn’t care less.

“Oh, hell,” Steve murmurs, giving over.

It’s not a lewd exhibition, they’re in public, after all, but it’s not exactly chaste either. The best thing about the way Steve kisses is how honest it is, everything he’s feeling poured out, nothing held back. Bucky would like to think he’s as honest in his affection, but he’s not sure. His walls were constructed so long ago, sometimes he forgets they’re there. Sure, he’s a flirt, and he can turn that on pretty easy. But vulnerability? That’s something else.

“All right, Casanova,” Steve murmurs. “Happy now?”

“Sure am.”

Steve smiles and dips his head, attempting to hide his embarrassment. Bucky gives him a moment to gather himself and goes to drop their trash in the nearest bin.

“So, it’s pretty early yet. What’s next on the agenda?” Honestly, he’d be happy to head back toward the house (and maybe the bed), but there’s no need to let on how eager he is.

“Thought you might like to hit the record shop.”

“Really?” Bucky perks up at that, already clasping a hand around Steve’s wrist and tugging him toward The Vinyl Stop around the corner. “You’re the best boyfriend ever!”

“I try,” Steve laughs.

As soon as he’s through the door, Bucky waves to Gabe behind the counter and makes a beeline for the “Latest Trades” section lining the back wall. He’s effectively abandoned Steve, but they’ve been through this before, and Steve understands his single-minded focus here. If he wanted to be sickly-sweet and couple-y all night, he would have suggested another place.

Bucky reaches the desired stacks and takes a deep breath, reveling in the familiar musty scent. He loves stores like this, old spaces, used spaces. It’s the same with antique shops and his frilly, octogenarian house. There’s something so inviting about a place that’s heavy with history. He can sense the pulse of previous lives thrumming under his hands as he paws through abandoned records, as he breathes in dust and memories. It’s like listening to long-silent voices. It’s like floating in time.

He explained this feeling to Steve once, the contentment he feels surrounded by discarded objects—things someone’s tossed away, things carrying the hope of a second life. He hadn’t said how much he sometimes feels like one of those discarded things, but maybe that didn’t need to be said. Instead of the patient smile he’d expected or blank confusion, Steve had crushed his brows together solemnly and nodded as though he understood. As though it mattered. And what a revelation that had been. To be seen and accepted by Steve? It made him ache in the best possible way.

Right now, all he feels is giddy joy to have laid his hands on _Never Mind the Bollocks_ , and he clutches it to his chest like a treasure. Bucky was still new to doggy-parenthood when Roscoe destroyed his last copy in a fit of puppy teething the previous year (he has since added a selection of more appropriate chew toys to the rotation). It’s not often he’s in the mood for Sex Pistols, but after a particularly rough day, it’s either stomp around to the soundtrack of someone else’s rage or put his fist through the wall. His therapist at the VA turned him onto the idea of channeling his anger in more healthy ways, and it’s saved him more than one trip to the hardware store. It helps that those kinds of days have significantly lessened since Steve came into his life.

After a few minutes, the man himself wanders over with _A Night at the Opera_ in his hands. Bucky nods approvingly, knowing it’ll be added to his collection since Steve doesn’t have any way to play it at home.

“Figured was about time we introduce Nat to Queen.”

“Awesome,” he says, smiling at that ‘we’. He knows he is in no way raising that kid, but he does feel a significant responsibility for certain elements of her education, music being one. Speaking of, she should really have a better understanding of the history of rock-n-roll. He searches for a bit before plucking out a weathered edition of _Gospel Train_ by Sister Rosetta Tharpe and setting it on the stack.

Steve runs his fingers along the battered covers and then settles behind Bucky, arms around his waist. “We’re old, aren’t we? Look at us, buying old man music.”

“Speak for yourself.” He smiles as Steve rests his chin on Bucky’s shoulder. “I have plenty of new stuff on the iPod. But tell me music doesn’t sound better this way.”

Steve kisses his neck—a lingering cares that ends with a scrape of teeth—and Bucky’s eyes fall closed. It’s a small thing, and yet Bucky can’t seem to get his thrumming heart under control.

“Well, I like the old album covers, for sure. Some of those illustrations from the 60’s and 70’s are beyond trippy,” Steve murmurs against skin, voice incongruously unaffected.

Bucky’s lost the thread of their conversation, doesn’t have a chance to gather his thoughts before the distracting little shit (Steve might be bigger than Bucky, but there is no doubt he is a little shit) is slipping a hand under the hem of his shirt, exploring his belly with soft strokes.

“Let’s get out of here,” Bucky huffs, pressing into the touch. “Yeah. Let’s just.” The thought fades into a sigh as Steve runs his mouth down the pulse point on Bucky’s neck.

“Oh, yeah?” Steve is all dispassionate innocence, even as he rocks into Bucky’s ass. “Got something better to do?”

_What fucking tease._

“Come on, you punk.” Bucky tears himself away and heads for the register, dragging Steve along through a laugh. He pays, brooking no arguments about the cost, and they’re out the door and heading toward Bucky’s place in a blink.

It seems the obvious choice, to go to Bucky’s house instead of Steve’s. He changed his sheets, after all. But it’s the thought of invading Steve’s bedroom—the room he shared with Peggy—that settles it for him. When they reach the door, Bucky fumbling with his keys, Roscoe barking his delight that they’re back, the moment turns pear-shaped and awkward. Handsy as he was in the shop, Steve is back to the blushing schoolboy routine, and Bucky suddenly remembers that the prospect of seeing Steve in all his naked glory naturally implies Steve will be seeing _him_ similarly revealed. Can he really handle that? He’s not sure. And anyway, Steve said he was ready, but he didn’t specifically say anything about _tonight_ , much as it might have been implied. He ushers Steve in and hesitates at the entryway, the sharp thwack of the door closing behind him sounding too much like the slam of a prison cell door.

Bucky drops the records and keys on the entryway table and reaches for the light switch, but stops before snapping it on. Something tells him if he turns it on, it’s over and they’ll never get the nerve to do anything more than gape at each other. That’s stupid, he knows. They’ve kissed plenty of times in all kinds of light. He’s rattled and overthinking everything and he should just turn on a damn light so they don’t bump into the furniture. But now he’s hesitated so long it feels weird to move.

“Buck?” Steve says, the sound disquieting in the still room.

“You want something to drink?” Bucky brushes past Steve and stumbles toward the kitchen, feeling his way through the shadowed space. Maybe alcohol is the answer.

He doesn’t get far. Steve tugs gently at his coat sleeve and pulls him back, drawing him into a sloppy kiss. Steve’s hands are awkward and rigid around his shoulders, and Bucky thinks he might have accidentally bitten Steve’s tongue in his surprise. Steve cringes away—he _definitely_ bit his tongue, how fucking embarrassing—Roscoe is nudging at his knees, and the whole thing is so ungraceful Bucky thinks he might cry from the ridiculousness of it all.

He breaks away from Steve, taking one look at that nervous puppy face of his, and he can’t help but crack up. The tight spring of the moment snaps, and suddenly Bucky is laughing out of control.

“Hey,” Steve says, expression twisting from confusion to grudging amusement. “It wasn’t that bad.”

His cackles shatter whatever solemnity was left of the mood. “It was _so_ bad, Steve.” He wraps his arms tight around his ribcage, trying to hold himself together, but the hysteria has already escaped. “That was epically bad.”

Deadpan, Steve says, “Well, now you know not to get your hopes up about how things might go in bed.”

That stops Bucky in his tracks, laughter plummeting toward a rattling death. Streetlight washes through the window, highlighting the mischief in Steve’s eyes.

“You still interested in that, even if it turns out to be epically bad?” Leave it to Steve to lay it out there. To be the brave one.

“Won’t be,” Bucky says, stepping back into his space. “Couldn’t. Not with you.”

“Oh I don’t know—” Steve begins, but he’s silenced with a kiss. The snark served its purpose, but they don’t need it anymore.

It’s better this time around, Bucky folding into Steve’s arms, a tender slide of lips that turns heated almost at once. All the promise of the day seems to be coming to fruition, and he wants to savor it almost as much as he wants to plunge in head-first. Steve takes the decision out of his hands, stripping Bucky of his coat and dragging him from the living room into the hall. It’s an uncoordinated trek which has Steve bumping a picture frame off its hook.

“Shit!” he says to the tune of broken glass. “Sorry, I’ll replace that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky murmurs as he finally wrangles Steve out of his coat and drops it unceremoniously on the floor. Hands exploring and mouths pressed together, they carry on toward Bucky’s bedroom. Bucky kicks the door closed, shutting out Roscoe and his mournful whine. His fingers trip along the line of buttons on Steve’s dress shirt, tiny little things confounding all attempts to gain further access.

“Fucking buttons—why did you wear something so complicated?”

Steve laughs and slaps Bucky’s hands away, making quick work of the offending closures. He’s down to his undershirt by the time Bucky toes off his boots and socks, and then that little scrap of white disappears, and Steve is standing there bare-chested and glorious. He’s breathing hard, a rosy flush twining its way down his neck and across his chest. Color seems to pop up wherever Bucky’s gaze lands, and isn’t that just the prettiest thing he’s ever seen?

_Jesus, he’s gorgeous._

Bucky reaches for, but doesn’t quite meet, that expanse of skin, afraid of spoiling something so lovely with his touch. Who knows what Steve’s reading in that stalled gesture, but whatever it is, it only draws out a shy smile. Steve dips his eyes as he steps out of his shoes; he starts on the button fly of his jeans, but pauses just before pushing them off his hips.

“The way I hear it, this works better if you get undressed, too,” he says with a nervous chuckle. He tucks his hand under the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt, knuckles a teasing question on his skin.

“Steve, I—”

“Hey,” he says, suddenly sober, reading the hot panic flooding Bucky’s system. “We don’t have to. If you changed your mind.”

“No, I want this. I do.” God does he want this. Bucky latches onto Steve’s wrist before the moment of hesitation makes him pull away. It’s been over two years since anyone besides his doctors have seen him out of his clothes, and he has no idea what to expect, especially in a situation like this. ”I just—there’s a lot of scarring. Like,” He huffs out a breath. “It’s not real pretty under here.”

Steve’s expression crumbles. “Oh, Buck.”

He was afraid of disappointing Steve, was terrified of it, and now he has … before he’s even taken anything off. Something hard and cold takes hold of his chest, and he resigns himself to the idea that all of this could be falling apart. “I’m sorry,” he croaks. “I should have said before.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

Bucky registers his surprise just before Steve dives in for another kiss. Then he’s pressed against that massive chest, and his fingers are grasping at Steve’s skin, the icy cold melting away under the warmth of affection. Steve cradles Bucky’s face, peppering his cheeks with adoring little pecks. “I want to see you. Please, let me. Please let me see you.”

If it were anyone else— _anyone else_ —he’s not sure he could take this last step. But this is Steve. “Okay.”

His hands shake as he reaches behind his head and tugs the collar of his shirt up and off. His shoulders hunch forward and he makes to cross his arms, but Steve stops him.

“Please don’t,” he says, with an unnerving, wide-eyed gaze. “You don’t have to hide.”

Bucky’s arms fall awkwardly to his sides. He squirms under the scrutiny as Steve finally sees what fire and shrapnel have done to him. The mechanical sheen of his prosthetic arm, the puckered flesh where it meets his shoulder socket, the ropy scars winding down his left side. He sees rippled skin and ugly white stripes twisting across his ribs and dipping below the hem of his pants. If he could see beneath the denim, Steve would find his hip and most of his left thigh mangled as well. Bucky knows what he looks like. Even in the near-darkness, he can only imagine what Steve must be thinking.

“You’re beautiful, Bucky.”

The words stab into his chest, and tears well in his eyes. “Don’t,” he chokes out, unable to handle pity of this sort. Not from Steve. Especially not from him. “Don’t lie.”

Steve leans in, sets his hands on Bucky’s sides, and strokes his thumbs over flesh, both scarred and smooth. “And I told you not to be an idiot. You’re _beautiful_.”

The tears threatening finally splatter down, and a plaintive cry falls from his mouth.

“All of this?” he says, running a hand along Bucky’s damaged side. “All of this is evidence that you survived, that you’re _here_. And I’m so lucky that you are. Please don’t cry.”

The thought he can’t escape is that if fate hadn’t been so cruel to Steve, it might be Peggy here in his place, and there’d be no need for whatever thin solace Bucky provides. It’s a useless meditation and unkind for everyone involved, so he slams the door on it.

Steve provides good distraction in this regard, kissing the damp from his cheeks and shuffling Bucky backward towards the bed. He meets the mattress and lets himself topple down, pulling Steve with him as they scoot up to the headboard.

“You’re so beautiful, Bucky. Every inch,” he says, hovering on hands and knees. “I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

Bucky huffs a sardonic laugh—well, what the hell have they been doing?—but he nods his assent. Instead of finding his mouth, though, Steve slips down and left, pressing a soft kiss to the juncture of his shoulder where smooth metal meets twisted skin. Bucky sucks in a sharp breath of surprise, and Steve raises his gaze but leaves his mouth in place.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

Bucky nods shakily, voice caught in his throat. Steve thinks he’s beautiful. Steve wants to kiss him. None of this seems real, but he’s not about to argue and shatter the dream. Steve lowers his eyes and brushes his lips along the raised skin, occasionally snaking out a tongue to taste. It feels strange but good. Bucky has gaps in sensation, places where the nerve-endings white out, where a kiss is an impression more than real feeling. And he’s able chart those places of sensitivity—both sharp and absent—because Steve isn’t satisfied with just a few moments attention. He carries on, kissing and stroking across Bucky’s shoulder, over his left pectoral and down his ribcage, a steady stream of tender affection that goes on and on, as though he intends on mapping each and every one of Bucky’s scars.

Bucky drops his head to the mattress, closing his eyes and floating on an oscillating wave of confusion and joy. He threads the fingers of his right hand through Steve’s feather-soft hair to ground himself. It earns him a happy hum and a particularly bruising kiss. This feels like … it feels like being worshiped, he realizes. It’s so hard to wrap his head around the idea that anyone would treat his body like a temple, broken and crumbling as it is. But his heart is racing, his skin is tingling, and he feels fucking _wanted_. And yeah, kind of beautiful.

He doesn’t know how long Steve’s been at it before Bucky is dragged from drifting delight by a tug on his waistband. He blinks, lifts his head. Steve has scooted down the bed, hands stroking the closure of Bucky’s jeans.

“Can I?” he asks. “I’d really like to.”

Bottom lip worried between his teeth, Bucky nods. “Okay,” he says when it seems like Steve’s waiting for a more verbal form of consent.

“Okay.” Steve beams, and Bucky feels his cheeks heat, pulse humming.

He’d been so relaxed, he’d forgotten for a moment where this all was supposed to be leading. But he remembers now, body tensed as he lifts his hips to help Steve slide the last of his clothes down and off his legs. It’s embarrassing, knowing Steve is still half-dressed while Bucky’s growing excitement is on full display.

“Can you …” He shakes his head and props himself up on his elbows, patching over nerves with a false note of bravado. “I mean if you’re gonna strip a guy down to his birthday suit, you oughta give a view of the goods, too.” He shrugs. “S’only fair.”

Steve grins and hops off the bed, dropping his pants and boxers like it’s nothing. Oh hell. Bucky’s breath catches at the sight, taking in every gorgeous inch—from Steve’s rucked up hair to his honey-golden chest, along the light wisps trailing down his abdomen, and finally—

—lower.

If there were any question as to whether Steve was enjoying himself, that’s been resolved. Bucky leans toward him, metal hand curling along the back of Steve’s thigh because, dammit, he wants to be closer.

“Come here,” he says, tugging. Maybe Steve had his heart set on kissing every one of his scars, but that can wait. The way Steve is looking at him, all apple sweet cheeks and dopey infatuation, it seems like this is just the beginning of things to come. Like they’ve got all the time in the world to do every single thing they might imagine.

The bed dips as Steve snuggles into his side, leg slung over his hip, mouth capturing his. It’s possessive and sweet, but it’s not quite what he wants. Bucky surges up, rolling them until he’s on top and positioned between splayed legs, leaving Steve breathless with surprise.

“That’s better,” he says, some of that long-forgotten confidence coming back to him. “Nice view from here.”

He kisses the bashful grin from Steve’s lips, vibrating through white-hot sparks of excitement as other parts of their bodies connect. The moment is raw and sharp, shards of desire spiking through him. Steve is right there with him, latching on desperately, catching Bucky’s hips in an iron grip. They grind together, fast and frenetic, pawing at each other like a couple if kids afraid of getting caught. Impatient hands roam while mouths explore, wide-open and filthy. Bucky jerks his pelvis against Steve’s, building a rhythm that could end this all much too quickly. Steve digs his fingers into Bucky’s arms and lets loose moan that rumbles into Bucky’s ribcage.

“Jesus,” Bucky gasps, already aching to hear that sound again.

It’s been so long—so fucking long—and all the make-out sessions in the world couldn’t have prepared him for what it would feel like to have Steve rocking beneath him, no barriers between their skin, no walls left to hide behind. His thoughts cloud out, heat rising up his spine, a trembling need tearing through him. He pulls away just before it’s too late, giving himself some time to calm down, to make this last. He doesn’t want this to be over yet. He doesn’t ever want this to be over.

Diving down, he takes Steve’s nipple in his mouth, and the wet tug earns him a squeak. When he carries on, scraping with teeth, Steve let’s out a long, tortured groan. “Oh, fuck, Bucky.”

“What do you want?” he murmurs, right hand splayed along the open expanse of Steve’s leg. He wants everything, but doesn’t trust himself to do right by Steve without direction. “I want to make you feel good.”

In wordless suggestion, Bucky skims his fingers along the juncture of Steve’s pelvis and thigh then teases toward the crease of his ass. Steve yelps, stomach muscles tensing.

“I haven’t … um, I don’t think I’m ready for that,” he says, haltingly. “I want to. With you. But maybe we could take it a little slow tonight?”

Bucky moves his hand away at once, stroking Steve’s hip in silent reassurance. “Of course.”

They haven’t discussed specifics before, afraid that talk of sex would imply readiness for it, but given Steve’s dating history, Bucky’s not surprised to hear his suspicions about the man’s experience all but confirmed. Knowing what Steve wants—even a hypothetical future desire—is almost as thrilling as the idea that he might get to be Steve’s _first_ something.

He considers his next words, drawn to the adorable hollow of Steve’s belly button and dipping his tongue into the groove. “Is my hand okay? My mouth?”

“Y-yeah,” Steve stutters, and Bucky grins, a devilish smile curling up.

Bucky settles himself between the open V of Steve’s legs, drags his bottom lip between his teeth, and takes him in hand. Steve is firm and heavy in his palm, and he smells earthy and rich. Steve groans and rocks his hips up into the touch while Bucky falls into an easy rhythm, responding to all the given cues. He brushes his prosthetic hand along Steve’s side, and Steve reaches for him, gripping his metal forearm in a hold that would otherwise bruise down to the bone. He loves the way he makes Steve feel, and he collects evidence of his pleasure like a detective. A moan here. A tremble there. The curl of his toes. The ripple of goose bumps along pale skin. Bucky is doing that. This broken-down man with demons to spare, and he’s making Steve feel like _that_. It’s a fucking gift, is what it is.

Soon Steve is shifting under him, needy little whines falling from his lips. It’s gorgeous and raunchy and perfect, and Bucky wants more.

“Fuck!” Steve yelps when Bucky takes him into his mouth. “Oh, God.”

Bucky moans, relishing the weight on his tongue, the pressure against his soft palate. Steve tastes like salt and musk, and he feels like silk. Bucky shifts to give himself better leverage, taking him deeper then drawing back with a long, wet drag. Steve babbles a steady stream of encouragement, hips jerking minutely, holding back from an all-out thrust.

Bucky doesn’t have a chance to really enjoy it before Steve is squirming away, pushing at his shoulder in warning. “I can’t—oh, Buck—”

His body goes rigid and still, and then he’s pulsing onto Bucky’s tongue with a rasping sob. Bucky holds him through the aftershocks, easing him down slowly. He works his way up Steve’s chest and snuggles to his side, brushing sweaty strands from his forehead. Steve pulls him in, curling his arm about Bucky’s shoulder and sharing a bitter kiss, otherwise uninclined to move.

“Bucky …” he sighs. “Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.”

Bucky laughs and strokes his side. “So that was okay, I take it.”

“Understatement,” Steve murmurs, eyes still closed, body limp.

He drifts for a while, happy to feel the steady rise and fall of Steve’s chest under his cheek. Content to ignore insistent messages from other parts of his body. He can wait. If it allows him to share Steve’s happiness like this? He can wait a long time.

In the end, the wait isn’t long at all. With a surprising surge, Steve bursts out of his meditative trance and flips Bucky onto his back.

“Hey, there, cowboy,” he laughs, bouncing on the mattress. “You excited about something?”

Steve just licks his lips and grins the filthiest smile Bucky’s ever seen. Wordlessly, he drops between Bucky’s splayed legs and swallows Bucky’s cock in a stunning display of oral dexterity.

“Holy _shit_!” he hollers, hands flailing for purchase. “Holy— _fuck_ , Steve.”

Bucky would like to say he holds out, submits to the tight, wet heat of Steve’s mouth for ages, but that is not, in fact, the case. Primed as he is, it only takes a few moments of Steve’s dedicated labor before Bucky sees sparks burst behind closed lids and feels himself spilling into Steve’s mouth to the tune of a shattering cry. Something must happen after that, but it’s a few moments more before Bucky is present enough to form words or thoughts.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, _Steve_ …”

Steve smiles as he crawls back up the mattress, licking his lips in a final, filthy reminder of what they just did.

“Here,” he murmurs, lifting first Bucky’s shoulders then his legs to ease the blanket out from underneath. He slides next to Bucky and pulls the covers up and over as they snuggle together. “This okay?”

“So okay,” he slurs, wriggling his back against Steve’s front. “You’ll stay, right?” That seems to be the unspoken conclusion here, but Bucky wants to leave no doubt.

Steve presses a kiss to his neck, pushing aside the messy remnants of his bun to get there. “I’d like that. If you want.”

“Want.” Bucky threads his metal fingers through the hand wrapped across his chest. “Want.”

“Okay,” Steve chuckles.

His breath is warm and ticklish on Bucky’s shoulder. It’s maybe the best thing Bucky has ever felt. “Hey, Steve?” he says, before losing all ability to speak.

“Yeah?”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

He feels the smile against his skin a moment before he drifts into darkness. He will dream well tonight, he knows. He will dream of kind eyes, soft lips, and hearts full-to-bursting.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Bucky.”

  


 

....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to my ever-present stucky cheerleaders, iwillnotbecaged, ragazza_guasto, and pringlesaremydivision, as well as everyone who has liked or commented on this story. I'm really happy you're enjoying this verse—I'm having a banging good time writing it!
> 
> Particular love to dreamnorweigen and IReenH for reading early drafts of this chapter. Love you!
> 
> Let me know what you thought!
> 
> xoxo,  
> s

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys for the love. I've had a lot of fun writing these. Steve and Bucky have helped see me through a pretty rough bout of writer's block, so I'm very grateful for that. Comments are always welcome, and come visit me on tumblr (this-simple-mind) if you're so inclined.


End file.
